Page 89 of The Black Witch

I’m braced for more hatred when I enter the sunlit lecture hall built just off the Gardnerian Athenaeum—braced for ice magic and eviscerating stares and yet another well that Fallon has preemptively poisoned.

Instead, I’m immediately enveloped by goodwill—solitary scholars and convivial groupings slowly realizing who I am, blinking, murmuring and then blessedly smiling warmly at me.

It’s all Gardnerians here, no hateful Kelts. And no Gardnerian military apprentices.

And best of all, no Fallon Bane.

Every muscle in my body relaxes in relief.

The scholars are a mix of male and female, every set of hands marked with swirling fasting lines, most holding steaming cups of tea and snacks on small napkins, a long sidetable overflowing with refreshments interspersed with potted orchids.

It’s like I’ve stumbled off the battlefield and into a genteel party.

“Welcome, Mage Elloren Gardner,” a tall young woman says warmly, gesturing toward the table of refreshments, an Erthia orb and a third-year scholar’s apothecary pendant hanging from her necklace. “We’re thrilled you’re joining us. Please, have some food and tea.”

I take in the incredible spread set out for us, head spinning over the sudden change in atmosphere and overwhelming luxury. There’s a full tea service, several types of cheese, seeded crackers, a bowl of grapes, sliced bread, butter rosettes, a variety of jams and a bowl of oatmeal cookies.

An almost irrepressible laugh bubbles up inside me. I smile back at my fellow scholars.

Everything will be okay,I comfort myself. Fallon’s a paper dragon. She can’t hurt me. I’m Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter and Vyvian Damon’s niece.

Immensely grateful for this better turn of events, I set my books down on a desk and pour myself some fragrant vanilla black tea from the elegant porcelain teapot, my hands slowly steadying. The china is decorated with delicate vines, and I can feel my nerves beginning to smooth out the moment the warm, rich tea slides over my lips.

“I’m Elin,” the tall woman says warmly as I walk back toward my desk. She makes a string of introductions, drawing me into their pleasant circle, and I nod and smile, struggling to remember names, slowly letting go of the remembrance of cold encircling my neck.

Fallon can’t hurt you. Let it go.

I glance around the hall where I’ll be taking not only Gardnerian History, but also Botanicals, both taught by Priest Mage Simitri. Rows of exotic orchids are set on long shelves beneath a wall of curving windows. The windows extend to a diamond-paned skylight that forms half the roof, sunlight raining down on us. Pen and watercolor renderings of orchids dot the walls, as well as oil paintings of pivotal moments in the history of my people. One wall is made up entirely of bookshelves lined with weighty history and botany texts. A glass door leads right to a small, domed greenhouse bursting with flowering vegetation.

And the Gardnerian building is wood. All wood. Not the cold, lifeless Spine stone.

I breathe in the rich smell of the Ironwood that surrounds me. Heartened, I glance at the nearest watercolor, drinking in the beautiful depiction of a pale pink river orchid. It’s signedMage Bartholomew Simitri.

He’s so talented, this new professor of mine. Not just a well-known author of historical and botany texts, he’s evidently an accomplished artist, too.

A slim Urisk girl darts in bearing another platter full of artfully arranged petit fours in a repeating pattern. Elin and the other friendly Gardnerians around me grow quieter and shoot small, wary glances at the pointy-eared, blue-skinned girl.

The girl keeps her head ducked submissively down, works silent as a ghost and barely causes a ripple in the air as she leaves.

The smiles and conversation resume.

Unease pricks at me over the subtle, collective dislike of the girl, but I remember my own harsh treatment in the kitchen and push the feeling away.

As I take my seat, the lecture hall’s door opens and our black-haired, hook-nosed, bespectacled professor glides in, his slight portliness and the crinkle of laugh lines fanning out from his eyes giving away his age. He’s neatly put together and sets his books down in precise lines on his desk before looking up and beaming at us like we’re long-lost and much-beloved relatives.

He’s dressed in Gardneria priest vestments, a long black tunic marked with a white bird—one of the Ancient One’s many symbols.

His eyes light on me and take on a reverential glow. He sweeps around his desk, makes his way down the aisle and bends down on one knee beside me, his hand resting gently on my arm.

“Mage Elloren Gardner,” he says with deep respect. “Your grandmother, may the Ancient One bless Her, saved my entire family.” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. “We were being herded up for execution when She swept in and freed us. It was Her, and your father, who liberated us and brought us to Valgard.” His eyes glaze over with emotion. “I owe my life to your family. And I am so honored to now have you, Her granddaughter, in my classroom.” He pats my hand and smiles at me as he rises, then, as if overcome, pats my shoulder, as well.

I’m deeply touched, tears pricking my own eyes. So relieved to be amongst only Gardnerians and embraced by them.

Priest Simitri looks around, as if overjoyed by the sight of all of us. “Please, Mages, turn to the first section of your history text.”

I open the book, the first page bearing the title and the author—Priest Mage Bartholomew M. Simitri.

He opens his arms wide, as if embracing all of us. “Let us begin, Mages, with the beginning. With the blessed Ancient One’s creation of Erthia, the very ground we stand upon. It is the story of every Gardnerian First Child. A story of Good versus Evil. Of Erthia bequeathed to all of us by the Ancient One above. It is...your story.” He speaks with theatrical grace, and a genuine enthusiasm that’s contagious.

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